Comfort

She had days when everything was too much to bear. Today had been one of those days--and it had barely begun. The memories of the war had haunted her all morning long, and she felt like there was no escape. She couldn't blink without seeing them--all those who had died for their cause, intruding as though her mind was a gathering place for them. Senseless guilt weighed heavy on her heart, and the thought crossed her mind for the umpteenth time, If only we had learned more sooner. If only I had found the answers sooner, then they would still be here. Her mind stumbled endlessly over scenario after scenario, possibility after possibility, judging all the what-ifs, until she was numb.

"Hermione," a kind voice said, startling her out of her pain. She looked up to see her boss, Mr. Smethwyck, standing in front of her. "Why don't you go take the day off?"

"Thank you, sir," she replied, attempting to hold back the tears she'd been shedding for the past quarter hour. A day off was the last thing she wanted, but she knew the hospital would be better off without her today. As Hermione turned to leave, Smethwyck cleared his throat.

"Ah, er, Miss Granger. Perhaps you would like to, er, speak with someone about your, er, loss?" Smethwyck looked as though he felt terribly awkward. Hermione shook her head.

"Maybe another day," she replied softly. "It's still too new . . ." Smethwyck nodded understandingly.

"Take as much time as you need. And don't forget, there's always somebody available if you need help." Hermione acknowledged Smethwyck's offer with a nod before leaving.

Help. There is no help for me, she thought numbly. There was no way to rid herself of the nightmares she had been having. There was no help to banish the aching loss and sorrow inside her heart. It was all now as much a part of her as her magic, these scars of war. She knew that now. She struggled to accept that, even as she struggled not to wonder what might have been.

Ron had never understood her on her bad days. He had always supported her, stood by her side. . . loved her. . . but he had a hard time relating to her. They were different; they didn't handle their grief the same. Harry could relate to her more easily, but Hermione knew he was suffering more than she--she couldn't possibly dump her woes on him. Thus it was, when Hermione came to her breaking point, she turned to him. Though they fought more than they got along, there was something in those fights--something deep, something passionate--that hinted at something more. What that something more was, she didn't know. But even when they were fighting, with angry words being thrown right, and useless hexes being thrown left, it was better than being alone in her thoughts, alone in the shell of the woman who healed other people's wounds.

Despite her desperate cry, there was help for her. He helped her. His cruel smirk, the one he seemed to reserve just for her, reminded her that she was not alone in her pain. Though she knew he would never admit it aloud, something about him told her that he felt similar to the way she did, and the knowledge gave her comfort that her friends never could. Of course, there were many things that he would never admit. Not aloud, anyway. There were secrets he told her in the way his eyes flashed when she hurt him. There were secrets she learned in the way he touched her--both angrily and otherwise. Hermione had her own secrets she kept hidden from him. There was no reason to give him the upper hand needlessly.

Hermione pushed him from her mind. Later.

She Apparated home and spent the day alone in her bedroom, sitting in bed with a book in her hands. As long as she was reading, she could lose herself in the words, and pretend that her own heartache, her own life, didn't exist. She was immersed in somebody else's story, in somebody else's trials and troubles. Only when her stomach rumbled loudly did she set her book aside. Hermione was surprised to see that the sun had started to set. Stretching, she got up and made her way to the kitchen. Meals were always quiet in her apartment, without anyone there to share them with. Tonight, however, the silence seemed to ring off the walls, and by the time she had finished eating, all the pain Hermione had managed to forget while reading had come rushing back to her, and she found herself almost sick with it. As she cleared the table and washed her dishes, she made up her mind. She couldn't handle feeling this way any longer.

Tonight, she needed him. She had not yet figured out what it was she needed from him, but she found herself Apparating to his doorstep almost mindlessly. She didn't know if she was looking for a fight, or his loving touch--or both. He must have been expecting her, because the door was unlocked and he was sitting in the living room with a bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand. Two crystal goblets adorned the table beside his chair. He did not turn to her as she stepped into his house, and his pale lips barely moved as he whispered her name. She closed the door and hesitantly moved to sit on the couch on the other side of his table. The newly risen moon peeked through the thin black curtains, and Hermione could see the silent tears glistening on his face.

Tonight, he needed her, too.

"Draco," she whispered, reaching for a goblet and the bottle in his hand, preparing to pour him some. Before she could open the bottle, though, he looked at her, and she could see the raw pain in his grey eyes. She ached to hold him suddenly. Her eyes asked his permission, and he nodded softly, almost imperceptibly. Setting the Firewhiskey and the goblet on the table, she moved to his chair. He stood up long enough to give her room to sit before settling himself in her lap. Her own woes were almost forgotten as she wrapped her arms around his waist--holding him was something she had never done before, but felt right all the same. Hermione had never seen Malfoy like this, and had no idea how to console him. There was a time, in their school days, when she wouldn't have cared. But now. . . now, she felt a twinge of pain inside that she could not understand, nor ignore.

Hermione leaned her head on Malfoy's arm, and in response, he rested his head on hers. The minutes passed comfortably before Hermione lifted her head. Malfoy looked at her, inquiringly, but rather than answer, Hermione bent his head to her and kiss his lips. Hesitantly, Malfoy's hand moved to the back of her head as he returned the kiss tenderly. It would have been a chaste kiss, but lasted far longer than innocence allowed. When they finally pulled away from one another, Hermione's face was wet with tears. It was not until Malfoy lifted a gentle finger to her eye that she realized they were her own.

They sat for a long time, foreheads together, simply staring into each other's eyes, tears softly falling, searching for. . . what? Answers? Secrets revealed? Understanding? Malfoy's hand rested on Hermione's cheek, still wet from her tears.

He was the first to move.

"I'm cold." He stood, and taking her hand in his, led her to the bedroom. They stopped at the foot of the bed, standing close enough to kiss. Before Hermione could think about kissing him, though, he slowly began to take off his robes. His eyes flickered to the bed briefly, before flicking back to her and asking silently, "Hold me?"

Hermione answered by removing her own robes and climbing onto the bed. There were a few precious moments of smiles, and even a chuckle or two--barely audible--as they settled themselves under the layers of bedding. Finally, both were settled in, their bodies intertwined, each giving the other their warmth. The soft cadence of Malfoy's heart beating against Hermione's own chest lulled her into a peaceful sleep.

The moon was still shining through the same black curtains when Hermione awoke, though it was higher in the sky. Its rays carressed Malfoy's features, so pale and sharp and beautiful. For one wondrous moment, Hermione found it was possible to believe that all was right and fine in the world, and that they both had all the happiness they needed in their lives.

Malfoy stirred, murmering softly, before slowly waking. His eyes opened on Hermione's smiling face, and he offered his own groggy smile before snuggling deeper under the quilts. Hermione had never seen a more beautiful smile.

"Hermione," he said after a minute or two. His smile had faded. Hermione waited to see if he would continue, and he did. "I signed the papers today. Malfoy Manor has officially been sold. He paused, and she could see him fighting tears. As they pooled in his eyes, she kissed his forehead, causing him to blink. A single tear ran down his face. "The Manor never felt like home to me. But now that it's gone--" More tears rolled down Draco's face, and he buried his head in Hermione's chest, "--but now I can't even pretend I have a home." Draco's voice was muffled, and his breath warm on Hermione's chest. She waited a moment to respond, but when she did, she gently lifted his chin so that he was looking at her.

"You did the right thing. I'm sure you've imagined what it would be like to live there alone, now that your mother's gone, too. You would go crazy."

"I'm already going crazy, Hermione." His voice cracked slightly, in desperation.

"I know," Hermione said, sighing softly. There was no point in arguing; she knew he was right. She simply held him, hoping that through their embrace, he could feel that though she didn't know exactly what he was feeling, that she understood his pain.

Draco took a moment to compose himself before turning his silver tear-filled eyes on her inquiringly. He knew, somehow, that she had come to him for reasons of her own. Hermione had almost forgotten her pain, so worried over Draco's was she. His sharp, penetrating gaze brought it back, though. Even if she had wanted to hide it from him, she couldn't.

"I-it's Ron," She started, ashamed that her voice was already cracking. "One of the fugitive Death Eaters k-kil--" Before she knew what was happening, her own eyes were leaking tears. She had to swallow before she could continue. "He escaped capture from the Aurors and killed a lot more people. Ron included. The Ministry--Harry--won't even tell me who did it. I'd go after the bastard--" a choked sob escaped her lips, unbidden, shaming her further. She wanted to be strong. She needed to be strong. But with every new death or disappearance, it became harder to hold on. Malfoy understood, though; he pulled her into him, and this time, she buried her face in his shoulder. They held each other for a long time, their bodies both racked with sobs, their chests rising and falling against each other's, their tears comgining to form a puddle on the pillows.

Eventually, they stopped crying. Just as she was drifting back to sleep, she felt his lips on hers, gently prodding. Her own automatically responded, and before she knew what was happening she was fully awake once more. This kiss was not chaste. This kiss awakened her senses as well as her mind. Her hands were on his back, but she could not pull him any closer, so they found their way to his butt instead. She had learned from experience that if she squeezed in just the right place with just the right amount of pressure, he moaned just a little and pushed himself against her. This did not fail her tonight, and her head spun at his response.

Suddenly, his lips left hers to explore other parts of her. He climbed on top of her, sliding a hand over one of her nipples and planting his warm mouth on her neck. She could feel his teeth nibbling her skin as his fingers lightly pinched her nipple, twisting it ever so slightly. This time, she was the one who moaned. As soon as his mouth returned to hers, she rolled them both over so that she was on top of him. Once there, she grinded her hips into his, feeling herself burn against the length of his erection. They continued to roll, kissing and licking and nibbling and touching each other to the point of torture before he whispered raggedly between kisses.

"Hermione. I--need you--I--want to have you." There was no other place for words then. She nodded shakily and spread her knees beneath him to make herself available. The lovemaking was slow, slower than it had ever been. He moved deliberately, filling her with an incomparable ecstasy. It took much longer than usual before they were both spent--in what felt like an explosion--lying in each other's arms, both gasping for air. Hermione waited to fall asleep this time until Malfoy had drifted off. After gently nudging him a couple of times, she concluded that he was sleeping, and let herself relax. She fell asleep immediately.

For too brief a moment, she had been engaged. She mourned his loss more strongly than anyone she had lost so far. His absence clawed at her heart. It was worst at night, when she was reminded that he would never share her bed. Her nightmares returned the night of "the incident." Therefore, she was surprised to find that she and Malfoy were both well-rested and happy when they woke in the morning. After another round of blissful lovemaking--quicker but just as sweet--they prepared for a new day together. This was the first time they had done such a thing, and it gave her a spark of hope, and something more.

As they were cooking breakfast together, she recognized--after three years of being "together," even after she was engaged--what that something more was. As he was setting their places at the table, she came around behind him, sliding her arm around his waist. She decided she liked it there.

"You're doing fantastic," she said. She would not have expected him, Draco Malfoy, of all people, to adapt to quickly to not having House-Elves at his service. He grinned at her in such a way that sent butterflies racing through her stomach. Retracting her arm, she began to walk away, stopping to whisper in his ear at the last moment, "I love you."

He set the tablecloth on fire in his shock, but quickly remembered himself, dousing and repairing it in less than two seconds. She would have laughed at his reaction, except he was not smiling. Until . . . .

"Well, Merlin, Granger. It's about time."